


The Worst

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28679820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Max takes the brunt of the 4077th staff's anger - until Charles offers him some protection.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	The Worst

It took three times before he realized what was happening- and then he mouthed “thank you,” and hoped the haughty surgeon wasn’t above accepting the gratitude of a meager Corporal. 

Charles closed one eye in a gesture too sustained for a wink - and a thousand times more elegant. Klinger felt like everyone disappeared but them... like they were in a movie. 

Relief surged through his too-tight shoulders and he felt like Charles knew, somehow - he really must be a good doctor! - how he carried the jabs and carping and sniping like a weight on his thin shoulders. He was already afraid of screwing up on top of just plain afraid - and that fear was just the uppermost thing. His ankles and wrists ached. He was cold, splashed with wet mud from running back and forth to the ambulances. He hated the sight of blood and the sound of screams. And he admired these men - fighting men who fought to hold the spirits of dying men in their bodies long enough to say, “let’s close.” 

When it ended - thank God, it always ended! - though sometimes it spilled over into his dreams - Klinger staggered to his tent and stripped, swaying, ungainly on his legs as a newborn colt, tossing his blood-spattered clothing out the door to be cold-rinsed by rain. He carded his fingers through his damp curls as he pulled on something soft and shapeless and he smiled because his mind wasn’t full, tonight, of voices calling him an idiot. 

A rap on the door frame made him rise - more ambulances? - and the cool wind carried familiar smells through the mesh to his nose: antiseptic from the scrub room, but sweet cedar, too, from the Major’s foot locker, and sugared lemon and sea grass - the Major’s cologne. 

He opened the door a little too rapidly, startling the other man, exhaustion making him jerky. “Major? More wounded?”

“No. Stand down, Corporal. Or sit anyway before you fall.” He shoved the door tight against an encroaching wind. “It is frigid in here, Max.” 

He moved to stoke the stove, admitting that, as a corpsman, he kept the Colonel’s stove going and the one in the Swamp (there were enough off duty nurses that they saw to theirs) ... but he never made it around to his. Charles shook his head at this. 

“It never occurred to me to wonder who saw to it that we returned to warm beds after OR. Thank you, Max.”

He warmed at this. Charles’ voice - gentle and singularly beautiful in the middle of the night - it was as good as types of blankets he’d only heard of - down and cashmere, maybe - and he tried to hold it in his mind the way one could hold in a breath, wanted to be able to hear it later, his name in that accent. 

“I should be thanking you. I needed that - what you did today.” 

“My pleasure. I have noticed that the others sometimes mitigate their own stress through cruel words. That might be acceptable if they chose a more unfeeling target.” _ I do not care to see you flinch. _ “So, I gave them one.” 

It was then that Max realized that he’d forgotten his manners. His cot was something of a fabric-covered disaster area, so he shoved the mess to one side and invited the physician to sit down. Charles made use of his supply crate nightstand to pour something that steamed.

“What’s this?”

“Sake. I know that you rarely drink, but it is sweet, which I know you prefer, and, more importantly,  _ warm _ .” 

Klinger wondered, very much, how he knew about the sweet thing, but he took the mug and sat beside him, hesitant in his motions, as if he was trying not to scare someone... maybe himself. “Thanks.” 

“Fitting, no? We take the brunt of everyone’s anger and stress and fear, you and I - we ought to have each other, at least, to be peaceful with.” 

“You could make them like you, Major. You’re... you’re real swell. Just give ‘em a chance to see it and they’ll go back to just fussing at me.” 

“It is not new, Max, my being on the outside of things. I am rather accustomed to it.”

He didn’t know how to interpret this, so he tried again. “There are already bridges there, Major. You’re a doctor - that oughta be enough for the Captains. Major Houlihan likes poetry. I bet you know how to ride a horse and the Colonel’d love you just for that. You don’t hafta be like me.” He fingered the edge of dress-in-progress, the pattern he had spent long hours creating only to have it ruined with rust brown droplets. He never wanted to see that color again after Korea. 

“P’raps,” he conceded without sounding convinced. “But that would leave you quite alone to weather their cruelty. Surely my company is mildly preferable?” 

Klinger saw his pale brows lift and realized that he really was uncertain. “Oh, yes, sir! It’s... this is real nice. You didn’t... you already did a lot for me in OR. I, uh, I appreciate it. A lot.” 

Charles surprised him then by imitating BJ carping at him. Klinger chimed in, stifling a laugh, pretending to be Hawkeye. They went back and forth - as Houlihan, as the Colonel (which Klinger really did quite well) - until they were breathless with laughter. Silly from sake, Klinger had careened into the surgeon’s side and lounged there, dress in disarray over his laughter-shaken limbs. 

Charles hauled him up by the collar. “Alright, Max, I think we must call it a tie.”

“What’s that?”

“Who is, ah, the worst, according to our esteemed colleagues, who is most deserving of their disdain.” 

“I don’t mind being tied to you, Major,” Max said then, trying to ignore the fact that he’d dressed so hastily that the only thing he wore beneath the soft folds of his dress was a garter on one thigh as a sort of security blanket. 

“Good. It is a fine alliance, I think. But you, dear girl, need to sleep. Your eyelids are fighting you.” He brushed a finger beneath one fluttering eye, lashes grazing his fingertips like a shy kiss. 

“Okay. Thanks. Thanks again, Major.” 

“My pleasure. Get some rest, Max.” 

He crawled into the covers as Charles gathered the cups and bottles from their impromptu party. The last thing he saw was the surgeon’s smile before he retreated into the very early light. 

***

After that night, the two became friends. When Klinger received baklava in the mail, he taught Charles how to eat it by soaking it in tea until the edible flowers floated and the honey in the dessert gave sweetness to the tea. 

Charles, in turn, listened to his fashion ideas - while Klinger (scrounging skills dialed up to 11) filled in the gaps in his record collection, presenting each recovered vinyl shyly. 

There were different reactions around the camp to the odd pair. Kellye was glad someone was looking after Klinger. Margaret found it “weird” that Charles was such a snob with everyone else, but tolerated a man in a dress - even  _ complimented  _ his dresses, at times. Potter appreciated the ways Winchester helped his clerk when Klinger grew flustered - and he appreciated that Klinger was capable of gentling Winchester when he grew angry over Hawkeye’s pranks, or grieved over losing a patient. 

But when Hawkeye joked, one night, loudly at the O Club about Charles  _ dating  _ Klinger, he ended up with a furious little Corporal in his face, the young man shaking so badly his earrings chimed. 

The showdown was so singular that no one tried to stop it - as no one would have known what to do if a kitten had jumped onto the snout of a bear - even Hawk sat, open-mouthed, taking his scolding. 

Then Klinger marched off, head held high, only to hide himself away because he  _ knew  _ everybody would be talking… and he knew it would probably cost him Charles. He wished Radar were still in camp. He could have told him how it was just his luck - to finally get a little peace, to finally have someone who halfway  _ liked  _ to see him - and to lose it all over Hawk and his big, dumb mouth. 

Max sighed, burrowing into his blankets. How many nights had he and Charles sat laughing, wrapped in those blankets, comparing the day’s tally of insults? He’d taught the Major how to put curls in his dark hair and lain, tranced, as Charles did so. He’d crocheted him a heavy blanket in varying shades of blue because he knew Charles missed the sea. He’d listened to stories of Honoria - how speaking of her lit up the Major’s lovely face! - and told Charles stories to make him laugh, like the time his fold-up bed had snapped shut on him in the middle of the night like a flytrap, or the Saturdays he’d hidden out in the theater balcony to watch movie after movie, the silver light dancing down from the enormous screen. 

It was a lot to lose. 

He almost wished he’d hauled off and punched Hawkeye in the nose; maybe some of the pain he was feeling would have been translated to the other man. Maybe he’d get it, then, what damage he’d done. 

Max was dozing and did not hear the door open; he woke to his favorite voice, however. “Are you quite alright, my dear? I heard there was something of a showdown at the O Club… over, ah, me.” 

Max groaned. “Heard about that, huh? I’m sorry, Major. They’ll settle down once you quit hanging around with me.” 

Charles’ eyes widened. “Max? Are you under the impression that you did something wrong?” 

He sighed. “I don’t know that I  _ did  _ anything. I am something wrong, though, sir. I know you’re not, but I guess, hangin’ around with me, somebody was bound to say it eventually.” 

“You mean to say that you are…?”

“Uh-huh. I mean, I like girls fine, too. But what gal’s gonna want somebody like me, Major? Anyway, thanks for getting them off my back for a while. It was nice of you.” He fought back a sharp wave of sadness. “Maybe you wouldn’t wanna hear it, but if I do ever get somebody someday, somebody that would wanna take care of me, I hope he’s as sweet a guy as you, Major. As… as gentle.”

Charles couldn’t remember anyone ever calling him “gentle,” but he knew how to be when asked. He placed a hand on Max’s cheek. “Would you consider not someone  _ like _ me - but simply  _ me _ ?”

Max made a very soft sound. “You can’t mean it. Do you?” His hands shot out but he managed not to grab on. “Do you mean it, Major?”

“Yes, sweet girl. Perhaps, together, we shall end up not being the worst, but, ah,”

“The best?” 

“Yes. For worse or better, Maxwell, I should like it to be with you, for the rest of this awful war - and after.” 

Max guided him back to the bed where they so often talked and laughed and they learned how to hold one another, expanding their friendship into something soft and sweet and new. 

End! 

  
  



End file.
